He Played the Game
by Student of Dreams
Summary: Injured in Afghanistan and having lost all his money by gambling it away, John Watson is in need of a new life and new hope. Perhaps in the form of one Sherlock Holmes. How the famous duo could have met in the movie-verse.


A/N: After re-reading A Study in Scarlet I was struck by the differences in character between the movie and novel. I knew they were there I just didn't realise they were so vast. So this is an interpretation of how Homes and Watson could have met with the movie's interpretation of the characters. I may go through the whole scarlet study as per how it would have gone with the different detective and doctor.  
>Anywho, the main differences, I feel, is that in the novel Watson described himself as very lazy, and it is this which drives him to try and find different living arrangements and so approached Holmes. The movie's Watson isn't lazy, but he does have a gambling problem. Also, in the books Watson is more dependant on Holmes than Holmes is on Watson, where the movie is more reversed and so I recon Holmes would have approached Watson instead of the other way around.<p>

... So, enjoy!

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><p><strong>He Played the Game<br>**

It was becoming very difficult to survive in the bustling city of London. I was living in a small building with several other people scattered around the floor on mattresses and a few in hammocks. The windows were too dirty as to let in much light, so a hanging oil lamp supplied most of the shadows. The whole situation reminded me of the crew quarters of a naval ship, the one that had taken me to and from Afghanistan

The small amount of wages I was receiving, eleven shillings and sixpence a day, could have permitted me a slightly more suitable dwelling, one with more privacy at the very least, if I had allowed them to.

Out of the twelve men with whom I lived I was neither the youngest nor oldest, but clearly the most educated. It was because of this that the others looked down on me, not sharing their food or assisting me when I asked. Yet, despite their hospitality, when a few became ill due to the putrid state of the only available water I did all I could to aid them. As a doctor it was my duty, and although I lived in disgrace and ruin I was determined to uphold my oath.

In many ways, I felt I deserved their scorn. I am, as mentioned, a doctor, which makes it all the more worse that I had fallen so low as to be practically homeless, sometimes going three or four days without a scrap of food.

Upon returning from Afghanistan, recovering from both injury and illness, there were very little activities that could have occupied my mind and allowed me some sort of release from the tension and anger that I felt towards myself. In my desperation, I had turned to something I had dabbled in during my medical training, although, then, it had been just a small flutter among friends.

Since my coming to London, gambling had become a vice and almost terrifying addiction.

I knew better, of course, I was an educated and self-aware man after all, yet whenever I heard of a fight or card game, be it legitimate or otherwise, Icouldn't help but imagine how much I could gain by doubling my meagre salary. I am ashamed to admit that had I not gotten myself tangled in that web of chance and luck then I could have easily brought myself back to the same social standing and level of respect I once had.

Having only just paid off a small but damaging debt I had landed myself in, I had promised myself to stay away from the more illegal aspects of the gambling society. The threat of having another bullet through my leg was not something I wished to confront again.

Then I overheard something I despaired at being exposed to.

A bare-knuckled boxing match was to take place that Tuesday, hushed, of course, from the ears of law-enforcement. A man who had only recently been bunking in our small hovel, by name of Jacobson if memory serves, had gotten word of a fighter who had only just returned from abroad, who put on a good show and never lost a fight.

Now, you may scorn me, and I would not fault you for it, for I thought that this may finally be the break I needed, a triumphant finale to my gambling career. I could retire in a comfortable hotel where I would never be tempted to flutter my money away on long-shots and desperate prayers. It is the great tragedy of gambling that in order to free oneself from it one must have money, and to a gambler such as I the only way to gain that was to continue with the highly dubious pursuit of the great jackpot.

When I heard the words 'sure thing', I knew I was doomed to succumb.

Jacobson took me to the back of a warehouse the day of the fight. He had double checked that I had my own money before we left, so he would not have to support me out of his own pocket. I got quite indignant at that insistence, but reassured him that I had three days pay with me.

There was quite a large and unruly crowd and it struck me how horrified my former colleagues would be at my even knowing of such a despicable fight, let alone my attendance at such an event.

At this point I had been quite well versed with society's dregs and their operations, but the intensity and hunger at which this crowd craved the impending brutality was almost frightening, and somewhere in the chaos I had lost my companion before he supplied the name of the fighter I was to be betting on.

I spoke to the man collecting the bets, assuming that if the man had come from abroad that he would be a foreigner. There were several fights to be lost and won that afternoon, only one with a man not England-born and I placed my money on a french fighter in the first fight who went by the name of Dredger.

It was a most vicious and bloody fight. I had been sure after seeing the massive stature of my fighter that he was most definitely the 'sure thing' my chaperone had been talking about. However, it was not long into the fight that he fell, his opponent having pulled a most low trick and tripped the man before bringing a plank of wood to the Dredger's genitalia.

Several of the betting men, who had obviously just lost as much if not more than I had, demanded that the winner be stripped of his own masculine organ for deploying such a despicable blow.

I remained silent, feeling as though I were one again struck with fatal fever and fought the urge to be sick. The world of failure swam before me, and before I could become completely aware of what I was doing I was back at the betting table, pleading with the man to take an I.O.U as payment in the next fight.

The man refused, and I struggled with myself as I tried to find how I could recover from the situation. He then threw me some grace, perhaps seeing the sorry state of my position, although I was the most respectable man in the place, and he offered to take my walking cane.

My wound still giving me much grief on cold weather I was reluctant to part with it, knowing that there would be many days where I would be unable to rise from my bed without its assistance. In addition to this it was a prize from my time fighting in the war, and I clung to its representation, that of a respected war hero and decorated soldier.

"Excuse me," came a voice behind me, far more cultured than I expected from anyone in the establishment.

I turned to a man roughly three inches shorter than I, with scruffy dark hair and a rather neat, if not haphazard, suit. I was immediately struck by a sense of the unnatural; that he could appear in such juxtaposition to his surroundings and yet seem to belong so completely to them was almost supernatural in the ease with which he achieved it.

"May I see your cane?"

Passing it to him, although keeping a weary alertness in case he decided to take off with it, I watched his dark eyes examine it's length before he tugged at the handle, just enough for the hidden blade to give of a glint in the dim atmosphere before re-sheathing it.

He turned to the bookie. "He will be placing this cane down, thank you." He passed it over, "Fourth fight. It should be worth more than triple his last bet."

There was a look that passed between the two men, which resulted in the bookie giving a very well-worn sigh and hesitantly scribbling something down in his ledger. He had placed my bet under the fighter documented as S.H.

When I looked from the paper to the strange man who had put his hand into my affairs I found that he was no longer present in my sight, and I wondered, perhaps, if I should remove any evidence that I had been there before the fourth fight began.

In the end it was morbid curiosity which urged me to stay. The second fight was as every other I had seen, no especially exceptional fighting moves were deployed, and as it usually does it was size that won out, with the larger fighter almost flattening the smaller.

By the time the third fight arrived I had grown almost unbearably anxious, which seemed to be increasing with the crowds hostility. The collection of men, easily as big and dangerous as the fighters they were betting on, were anxious for blood and were shouting with such fury that it was near impossible to make out their words.

The third fight happened, again, without any special event. If not for the lack of protective gear one might have suspected it was a friendly bout between two marines, trying to brush up on their training. A man, so covered in tattoos that it was hard to determine the natural tone of his skin, won the skirmish and the crowd frothed at the mouth.

Three men then threw themselves over the small wooden barrier and into the ring, seeming to think that as long as someone brought down the tattooed man then they would be entitled to their money. No one seemed to want to stop the trio, and I saw a few spectators taking bets on to outcome of this new development.

After a few excruciating minutes the body of the tattooed individual was dragged from the ring by the three intruders, who then took an amateurish bow to the cheering mob who immediately pushed drinks into the hands of the winners.

I forced my way through the crowd, my heart in my throat. I had seen death before, there isn't an army-man who hasn't, but never because of something like this. I needed to know I wouldn't become someone who held with celebrating the killing of a man for sport.

To break through the swarm I found myself saying something I hadn't in months, something I then discovered I dearly missed saying.

"Clear the way; I'm a doctor."

The collective, probably more startled at the notion of a medical man in their midst than anything, turned and allowed me a small passage through so that I could kneel at the man's body. As I felt for a pulse, gratefully finding one, the crowd lost interest in my activities and turned back to the ring, where the beginning of the fourth fight was being announced.

I paused, knowing this was my fight but still feeling the blood of the last fighter under my hands. I itched to stand and survey the ring, but with the desperate hissing of the crowd, clearly familiar with the fighters and having been stung more than once because of it, I remained at my post.

It was after I had checked for broken ribs and was trying to set the man's arm did the crowd sudden die down. It was as if I had been struck with a sudden deafness, and I cleared my throat quietly to be sure I could hear. Straining, I detected a flurry of movement, the sound of flesh on flesh, and then a series of harsh cracks that made the medic in me reel with sympathetic pain.

The wall of the fighter's ring collapsed, and a body was flung out, nearly flattening me when it landed. I reached out an arm for the second unconscious man's pulse, experiencing an almost drowning sensation as I realized I had no idea whether this was my fighter or not.

After confirming the man was alive I looked up to the break in the wall. A man was standing there, wiry and bloodied, breathing as if he should be doubled over but was still standing tall. With a start I realized that this man was the one who had placed the bet for me. He held his eyes with mine, a smile crinkling their corners but not reaching his lips.

We remained in that position, surrounded by a silent awestruck audience until a voice rang out.

"And the winner is, _Sherlock Holmes_!"

I took note of the name before, with the formalities done, the worn fighter stepped into the throng of people and virtually disappeared, leaving me stunned, with two patients under my hands and the man's name ringing in my ears.

"Guard these men," I ordered a nearby individual, probably no more than nineteen years of age, "insure that nobody moves, or even touches them."

Receiving a nod, I sprang to my feet and ploughed in the direction in which this Mr. Holmes had stepped. I pushed many of the others out of the way, and while they snarled after me no one put a stop to my shouldering through, undoubtedly assuming I was in pursuit of someone refusing to pay up on a bet.

I ended up at the betting table, slightly out of breath in my unprepared condition. "Did that Holmes fellow come by here?"

"He did indeed. Took his winnings, and yours, and left."

"And my cane?"

"Took that too."

"God damn it." I slammed my hand down on his table. I was angry at myself more than anyone or anything else. I closed my eyes and contemplated the two unconscious fighters, being drawn to the temptation of jumping into the ring and letting the next lot finish me off. I thought I would be better off as a limp and lifeless body than in the state I was in at that point.

"Do you know h-how I could find him?" My voice broke and I suspected it was to go along with the rest of me. At the end of a very painful and devastating career as a gambling man, I was determined to bring this vice to an end, one way or another.

The man huffed. "You don't find Sherlock Holmes. He finds you."

I made my way to the hovel soon after, my hopes and heart no longer being carried with me. Somewhere in my very small and locked trunk I had my service pistol. While it was supposed to be a weapon of honour, issued by the army to defend England, I was contemplating the most dishonourable use for it.

However, when I returned the doorway to my residence was blocked and I stepped forward towards the figure.

"Can I get past?" I spat, manners no longer my priority.

The man turned, pivoting on a familiar, slender possession. Sherlock Holmes stood before me, dark suit back into place, face cleaned of blood and bruises adorning several corners of his inquisitive features.

"Dr. Watson, I require your assistance with a problem of mine. How efficient are you with determining a cause of death?"


End file.
